


The Only Easy Day

by Verasteine



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: BDSM, Dubious Consent, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-21 22:35:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2484764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verasteine/pseuds/Verasteine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe has always known what he needed, has always been able to take him down and out of his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only Easy Day

**Author's Note:**

> My gratitude to [](http://tailoredshirt.livejournal.com/profile)[**tailoredshirt**](http://tailoredshirt.livejournal.com/) , [](http://perspi.livejournal.com/profile)[**perspi**](http://perspi.livejournal.com/) , and [](http://blackbird-song.livejournal.com/profile)[**blackbird_song**](http://blackbird-song.livejournal.com/) for asking questions about this, and [](http://tailoredshirt.livejournal.com/profile)[**tailoredshirt**](http://tailoredshirt.livejournal.com/) particularly for betaing and answering my endless nervous emails, as well as inciting this idea to begin with. See [the original posting](http://verasteine.livejournal.com/170486.html) for detailed warnings.

The burn of the blow melds with the pain of the previous blows. How many, he doesn't know, lost count a while back because he's not required to count them. His focus is on staying still, on accepting and absorbing it, ready to take the next hit, breathing out as it lands.

"Relax those muscles, Steve. Take it and put it away."

The cadences of Joe's voice are out of his reach for a moment; he has to work to process the words, translate them into action, force his muscles to let go of the tension that each blow instills in them.

The next hit lands harder, deeper, and he jerks at it, blows out an audible breath. He senses Joe pausing, tries willfully to relax again, hangs his head.

"Put it away," Joe says again, "you can do it."

He forces his voice to work. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Sorry isn't good enough, sailor."

He sucks in a breath. "No, sir."

Joe makes a disapproving sound under his breath, soft and low. "You can do better than this."

"Yes, sir."

A hand touches his skin, burning as fingers skim over abused flesh. Steve grits his teeth to accept the touch. "I know you can," Joe says.

It's difficult to enunciate the words; he moves his jaw to unlock it before speaking. "Yes, sir."

"I don't need you to keep saying that. I need you to do it."

"I know." He remembers in time. "Sir."

The hand on his ass squeezes, making pain flare through him. He closes his eyes for a second, lets it burn bright and strong.

"We've barely gotten started, Steve. You're out of practice."

He swallows. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Yeah." The hand disappears.

He hears Joe stepping away, feels himself tense in anticipation. He sucks in a long breath, lets it out, wills his muscles to relax again.

"Let's warm you up slowly."

He feels a whisper of the flogger against his skin as it trails over him, tries to let himself sink deeper into the bench, closing his eyes as the first heat of pain flares across his previously untouched back.

"This isn't like you," Joe says calmly as he works the leather straps up to his shoulders in an even, light rhythm.

Steve swallows against the ache in his throat. "I'm sorry. Sir."

"I know you are." Joe pauses, and Steve can hear him move, senses him moving to the other side of the bench. He's barely realized what that means when the flogger makes contact with his ass.

It flares red hot, his breath stutters and catches and he shakes, one long shudder as he bites down on a moan.

" _Stay still_."

Joe's tone sends a spike of adrenaline through his veins and he freezes, forces trembling muscles into stillness. He breathes through the throbbing pain as Joe continues to hit him with well placed blows.

 _Take the pain and put it away_. He's stronger than this, stronger than the burn and the blows, he can make it through this.

When Joe stops Steve breathes out carefully, waits for the pain to recede. They've barely gotten started. There's a lot more to come and he has to take it all, knows he should be able to take it all. They've done this before; nothing about it is different.

Fingers touch his ass, kneading gently and spreading the glow across his skin. He closes his eyes as he swallows against the sounds in his throat, hangs his head as his cock stirs between his legs.

Joe steps away, rummages around, and Steve hears a soft snick before wet fingers are back on his ass, probing his entrance. Joe starts out easy, one finger, coating him and stretching a little. He forces himself to relax and open up, tries to stop his mind from anticipating the next step, to sink into the place of acceptance.

It's not his decision, not his choice, not his control.

"That's it," Joe says, "take it."

A second finger joins the first, stretching him more, opening him up, and Steve grits his teeth again. The anticipation is making the pain recede, a throbbing background noise he can deal with and pack away. Joe spreads his ass cheeks wider with his free hand as he inserts a third finger, and Steve swallows easily against the groan that threatens to rip out of him.

Joe removes his hands, Steve hears him moving around and retrieving something, and he spreads his legs just a little wider, focuses on keeping his breathing even and his blood calm.

The plug Joe pushes into his ass isn't all that big, sliding in with relative ease until he gets to the wide base. Joe works it into him without stopping, and Steve bites his lip at the feeling of being stretched beyond comfort, the tearing pain that makes him want to clench down.

A hand rests on his back. "Well done, son."

He takes a deep breath and lets it out again, feeling the glow suffuse him. "Thank you, sir."

"Let's give you some more." It's the paddle again, resting briefly on his back before making contact with his ass, red hot. There's no pause before the next blow, making him work for his control, freezing himself into place while trying to relax muscles desperately wanting to tense up.

"This is what I want to see, Steve."

He sucks in air through his teeth. "Yes, sir."

"You know how to do this."

He does, he hasn't lost this even though it's the first time since he's seen Joe again that they're doing this. After everything that's happened the last few weeks, his failures with Kono, with Makoto, he needs taking out of his head.

The next hit is to his thighs, and he jerks, tries to get away from it before he can stop himself, and Joe pauses.

The silence deafens abruptly. His legs throb in counterpoint to his ass, the plug sits uncomfortably inside him, and he knows something's wrong beyond having reacted to the blow; he missed something, he fucked up somewhere.

Joe clears his throat.

It comes to him then, and he opens his mouth, swallows to try and make his voice come out steady as his heart beats in his throat. "Sir. I'm sorry, sir. Yes, I know how to do this. Sir."

Joe lays the paddle down on his back and Steve stays still, doing absolutely nothing to upset the instrument.

"I'm disappointed in you, son."

He swallows again. "I'm sorry, sir."

"You can keep saying that, but that doesn't make it okay."

"No, sir."

Joe touches his back, where his skin only glows mildly and doesn't throb. "You wanted this because you know you need it."

 _Yes_. He nods, remembers to stay still when he can feel the wood on his back shift. "Yes, sir."

"And I want to give you what you need. I can't do that if you don't accept it."

He needs this, needs taking out of his head, taking down a notch so he won't fuck up the way he has been doing lately. "I know, sir."

"If you don't want to accept it, why did you come to me?"

The question hangs in the room and Steve scrambles for an answer. "I can do this. I can."

Joe hits him on the ass with his bare hand, forcing him deeper into the leather of the bench because he isn't expecting it. It doesn't even sting much, not on top of how much his skin is throbbing already. The paddle on his back wobbles and shifts and Steve prays it doesn't fall off. "What was that?"

 _Fuck fuck fuck fuck_. "Sorry. I'm sorry, sir. I can do this, _sir_."

"I expect you to do better than this. You know I do. Should I expect less from you?"

He tries to ignore the yawning chasm that threatens to open up in his gut. "No, sir."

"You're damn right you can do this," Joe mutters under his breath, and the paddle disappears from Steve's back, makes contact with his ass only a second later.

He grits his teeth, makes himself sink back into the place where the pain is nothing but an angry throb that has nothing to do with him, nothing but a reminder of what he is and where he needs to go.

It's hard to reach the place where he can accept it; he's out of practice, he shouldn't be making mistakes this early on. This isn't something that should even be difficult, this is just the beginning, he needs to take so much more before he can come out on the other side and he knows it.

For a single bright second, it seems insurmountable; he wants to struggle, wants to fight it--

" _Take it_ , Steve." The warning in Joe's voice is clear.

He hangs his head again, focuses on his breathing, evening it out as the blows continue to rain down, every one of them still an incentive to move, something to fight against, something to focus on. "Yes, sir," he manages in time.

Joe stops, lays the paddle down on his back again. His hand is back on Steve's skin, at first just stroking, then squeezing gently, harder, until Steve wants to shift away, bites back a groan. His cock stirs a little, the pain too much to get him anything more than half hard. Joe's hand dips down, skims the plug, and cups his balls.

He can't stop the moan that makes its way up from his chest, the need that's suddenly throbbing through him, need for anything that will feel good, better, relief. He's already opening his mouth to apologize when Joe's hand clamps down like a vise and the cry of pain tears from his throat without resistance.

Joe lets him go, steps back, and in the absolute silence Steve can feel a drop of sweat slipping from between his shoulder blades over his right shoulder, itching as it makes its way down and finally drips from his skin. He can hear the air-conditioning hum in the background, can hear the harsh sounds of his own breathing in the quiet room. He fights to breathe evenly, wishing he knew whether to break the silence or wait for Joe to speak.

He doesn't know how long it is before Joe finally talks. "You want to tell me what that was?"

He runs through several answers in his head, discards most, quickly settles on, "Screw up. I fucked up, I'm sorry. Sir."

"How many times do you think I want to hear I'm sorry from your mouth?"

He swallows the words from the tip of his tongue. "I-- I'll do better, sir."

"You said that last time."

He has to fight to keep his breathing calm. "I can do this. I can take it. Please, sir."

Joe waits a beat before replying. "Please what? Please don't punish you for your weakness?"

 _Fuck fuck fuck_. Steve shudders. He's got to get his head in the game, prove he can take this. "Punish me. Teach me. I'm out of practice, I can do it, I--"

"Civilian life has made you soft."

 _Yes_. He swallows. "Yes, sir."

"Time to step it up a notch. No more coddling."

He tenses, relaxes right after, forcibly. "Yes, sir."

Joe steps away, keeps talking as he retrieves something. "I _know_ you can do better than this. You know it, too."

The pit that opens in his stomach makes him curse himself. _Get it together, McGarrett. Stop fucking up_. "Yes, sir."

Joe comes back, taps the inside of his thigh. "Apart."

Steve obeys automatically, spreading his legs wider. Joe reaches down and takes hold of his balls again, wraps something around them, snug and tight. Steve can't stop the sigh that escapes him. When Joe attaches the weights and lets them hang, he bites his lip to keep the sound in.

Joe is already pulling the plug from his ass before he can fully adjust to the new strain on his body; it makes him start and he has to clamp down on the reaction, hard. Joe's finger slips inside, pushing in deep and Steve widens his stance even more to take the intrusion. Joe brushes over his prostate and he can feel his cock jump, blood pouring south as he rapidly hardens.

He sucks in air as Joe adds a second finger, bites his lip hard enough to taste blood. Sweat is breaking out over his body, dripping down his face, pooling on his lower back. Joe reaches between his legs with his free hand, grabs his erection in a pinching grip, and presses down with his fingers inside Steve.

He can feel himself begin to leak, Joe's grip keeping him from coming, and he's panting for breath, blood roaring in his ears for a moment. Come is seeping out of his cock and he _wants_ so much more, so much that he hasn't earned and shouldn't need. Joe pulls his fingers out, removes his other hand, turns away to wipe his hands before coming back.

The plug that pushes at his entrance is larger than the previous one and it's pushed in just as relentlessly, making him take it, and he welcomes the feeling, the reminder, without complaint. The flare of pain is strong and he makes himself stay in place, not clench, not tense up, not shift, not do anything except take what he's given.

When it's done there is a moment's respite, silence behind him as he catches his breath, and he welcomes that, too.

"Ready?"

He doesn't dare ask what for. "Yes, sir."

Joe takes the paddle from his back, but doesn't use it. He retrieves something else and Steve has only a millisecond to identify the sound before the cane cuts a stripe of pain across his back. "Count."

"One," Steve replies automatically, gasps for breath as the second strike hits, a little lower. "T-two."

The third hits the top of his ass, hints at the burn he's going to feel when the cane will strike abused skin, and he can't help tensing up, forces out, "Three."

The fourth doesn't move lower, strikes across the previous welt. The pain is piercing and bright and he stutters over the word. "Fo-- f-four."

The sweat on his back is cooling his skin and the contrast is absurd. It makes it hard to focus, makes him want to shiver and he can't, holds his body still against the desire to move.

Joe's fifth strike cuts right across his ass. It burns a stripe of raw pain over his skin, makes him gasp and jerk and squeeze his eyes shut. He needs several seconds before he can do anything more than breathe. "Five."

The weights between his legs move steadily and he tries to identify that pain, use it to focus on what's going on, on what he needs to do, but it breaks his concentration and before he can get where he needs to be, the sixth blow comes down across his ass, lower again.

He presses his lips together, pushes his tongue up to the roof of his mouth, stills the air in his lungs so he cannot make a sound, his body screaming for oxygen. He relaxes again, one step at the time, until he finally lets himself suck in air through clenched teeth. The deep throb of abused skin wipes his mind clear of everything, makes the control so hard to get to, and he fights it, fights the overpowering need to get away.

"Six," he finally counts, voice rough and too low.

In reply, the seventh blow lands where his ass meets his thighs. It rocks the weights and he locks down, can't do anything but let the pain sear through him. He can feel a sob trying to fight its way up from his chest like it's an alien thing outside of himself. He wants to open his mouth, but if he does, he fears what he'll say.

Silence whistles in his ears, soft and taunting, and he can feel goose bumps breaking out across his chilled back, can feel the shiver that's trapped in his muscles, can't do anything except stay still.

Joe clears his throat.

He works his jaw, sucks in air, tries to talk. His voice fails and he swallows. "...seven."

"You'll take that one again."

 _Fuck fuck fuck_. He clamps down on the impulse to apologize. He needs to accept this and take this, let it take him down. No one is making him fail except himself. "Yes, sir."

The strike cuts right over the previous one, burning bright and harsh, lancing through him, the weights tugging on his balls in counterpoint until it feels like every part of him is on fire. The air stutters out of his lungs and he can barely stop himself from flinching. "S-seven."

The eighth strike cuts across his upper thighs, and the weights rock again. He bites down on the groan, waits for the burn of the stripe and the deep ache in his balls to fade slightly before he manages, "Eight."

Nine hits just below eight, and he slurs the word out, unable to make his mouth move. Every last ounce of energy he has goes into keeping still and taking it in. Putting it away isn't an option anymore, the stripes keep searing across his skin as if he's still being hit. Everything hurts, from the oxygen in his lungs to the rawness of his throat, and he takes the tenth blow with a sense of relief, a respite. "T-ten."

He lets himself sag further into the bench, feels the leather accept and support him, and he sucks in a breath of fresh oxygen. Everything hurts, but he got here, he got to this point, he--

The eleventh strike cuts across his ass and he jerks hard, groan startled out of him as his body is set on fire by the blow. His lungs burn as the oxygen is rapidly used up, and he gasps wetly for air. He tries to make his mouth move, has no breath for talking, tries again. When he wants to wrap his tongue around the number, anticipating the next one, his resolve fails. He fights, tries again, forces out, "E-eleven."

He knows it's a mistake before the twelfth cut hits his ass; this is not going to get easier and he's too weak to keep up. The pain lances through him right after the thought, a fitting punishment, and he sags again.

Sweat's running down his back and his legs, and there's blood in his mouth. He spits it out before trying to talk, needs another two tries to manage to make himself audible. "...red."

"Okay. Deep breath, Steve."

The cane is put down on his back and he does as he's told, breathes out a long breath. Joe's hands rest on his ass and squeeze, forcing the fierce pain into the deeper throb, letting it fade from his skin. It makes it easier to pull air back into his chest, to sink back into the bench.

Joe tugs the plug out of him, slips two fingers in, and reaches between his legs to grip his cock. He's not even hard, no way he can get close to getting it up right now, but it doesn't matter because Joe's fingers wring the fluid from his body anyway. He hangs his head and lets it happen, lets it be taken from him.

When Joe is done he plugs him again, same plug that Steve can now take easily. "You need some rest before we continue?"

He works his jaw. "I--"

Joe's hand rests on his lower back. "Steve?"

"I'm good."

"Are you lying to me, son?"

He swallows, prays he isn't. "No, sir."

When Joe takes the cane from his back and replaces it with the paddle he is pathetically grateful. "Keep that there."

"Yes, sir."

He can't place the sounds he hears after, only realizes what they were when the first strike of Joe's gloved hand hits his skin. Gloved so he can hit him harder.

The shiver is abrupt and he can't stop it, travelling down his spine with a ripple that betrays his lack of control. _Fuck. Fuck_. The paddle stays in place, but that's the only good thing about this.

"What was that?"

The anger in Joe's voice makes him shudder, yawning pit opening up in his stomach as he realizes how far from control he is. "I--"

"You what, sailor?"

The tension in the room mounts as he fights to contain himself, scrambles for the words that will somehow mitigate his failure. "I can do better, sir."

"You're not showing that to me, Steve."

"I know, I'm sorry, I--" He swallows hard, suppresses the next shiver. "I can take it. I'll do better. Sir."

There's no reply, except the next blow to his ass and it hurts in a deep, violent way that travels up his spine, settles in his head. After the cane, the spanks become easier to fold away, and he forces the relaxation, forces the stillness and the careful, measured breathing that he needs to meet Joe's exacting standards. His balls ache and his ass throbs and the plug shifts uncomfortably inside him, but he knows this, is relearning this, just has to take it and accept it.

He feels himself slip down, sag into the deep dark where the pain is nothing and everything, where he can be nothing but a mass of aches and bruises, where it doesn't matter who he is or what he has done except to take the next strike that lands.

He doesn't know how long it takes, how many blows, when he surfaces from the absence of immediate pain, only the dull glow that suffuses his ass and balls. He shifts carefully, paddle still in place on his back.

"You took that well."

He can't help the stab of pride, tries to fold that away, too, doesn't want to let it make him confident. "Thank you, sir."

"Rest for a moment."

Joe's hand trails over his back, over his ass, taps against the weights. Steve can't help the small groan that that tears from him, sucks in a breath and says, "Sorry, sir."

"It's okay. Take a moment."

He carefully moves his shoulders, rolls them as much as he can, pulls his arms up and gets a little blood flowing. Every movement sends little spasms of pain through his body.

"You're going to feel this tomorrow," Joe comments from somewhere behind him.

"I'm okay," Steve replies, knows he'll feel it for days and it'll ground him.

"I know you are," Joe says.

Steve relaxes into the bench for a moment, just breathing and letting things sink in. "I know I need this."

Joe's hand rests briefly on his lower back. "You've gone a very long time without it."

"There wasn't anyone--" He stops himself. "I didn't think I needed it. But lately, there's been too much--" He threatens to get lost in his own head and swallows against the feeling.

Joe squeezes his flank, reminding him of the lashes he got there and the glow of his skin, and it helps.

"It's more difficult now," Steve says inexplicably.

Joe clears his throat. "It doesn't help you if I go easy on you, Steve."

"I know, I know," he replies quickly. "Joe, I-- I can take this."

"Are you ready for more then?"

He pulls himself back out of the quagmire of thoughts. "I'm ready when you are, sir."

Joe is back to tap against the weights again, and this time Steve bites down on the groan. "It's going to get harder now."

"I know. I'm just out of practice."

"That's not an excuse, son."

"I know, sir." He breathes carefully in and out. "Look, I can take more, okay? I'm still here, I just--" The frustration makes him shift, and the paddle slides off his back, clattering to the floor noisily.

 _Fuck_.

He squeezes his eyes shut. "I'm sorry, sir."

"That is not a defense!" Joe's voice echoes off the walls. "I am done telling you this!"

 _Fuck fuck fuck fuck_. "I know. I know, I'm sorry, I'll take it. Whatever comes next, I'll take it, sir."

"I am tired of your excuses!" Joe is behind him, abruptly, nudging his foot with his own and Steve widens his stance as much as he can, has to push up on his toes to accommodate it. Joe yanks the plug out and Steve bites his cheek, knows what's coming next and steels himself just in time.

The new plug Joe pushes in is larger and though he knows he's taken this before, it still feels like it's too large and he's being split in two and he has to fight that fear, fight the pain and everything that's clawing at his chest. He doesn't get time to adjust, he hasn't earned it; there have been too many fuck ups with too few good moments in between and it's his own fault; he let himself lapse. He hears Joe retrieves the paddle from the floor, there's a pause, and then he hits the plug dead on. Steve can only clench his jaw and press his tongue into his cheek until it hurts to stop himself from crying out.

"You have got to _stop_ making excuses for yourself." The next blow is low across his ass and hits every deep bruise he's already got. "No one doing this to you but _you_."

He squeezes his eyes shut against that truth, takes the blows raining down on him knowing it.

"You know this is what you've been needing. So take it. I expect _better_ from you, son."

The pain isn't sinking in, it's too much too fast and he can't find a way to deal with it, wants away from it, out of this room, give up against the onslaught. He knows he's betraying himself, feels himself lose the control he needs, but he can't stop.

"Stay _still_."

The order helps him freeze in place but the next blow destroys it again; he jerks, clenches up and moans when Joe promptly lands his next strike on the plug.

"Do you need me to tie you down so you can't move? Is that what it'll take? Because I'll do it, son, don't you think I won't."

A blinking chasm stares at him, the floor threatening to come up to meet him, and everything whirls. For a terrible second, he thinks he's going to be sick, and he needs his voice to work but it fails on him. He pushes up, feels Joe's hand between his shoulder blades, forcing him back down.

"Stay down!"

He obeys, goes limp as he takes the rain of blows, curls around the bench because he can't curl up any further. He retreats into his head, lets his body be a throbbing mass of pain and confusion and hurt. When he resurfaces, it's to a few final spanks before Joe puts the paddle back down on his back, and Steve breathes out a shaky rush of air.

"You need to accept what you're given."

The words hang in the room and it takes him far too long to realize something is expected of him.

"Answer me, sailor."

He swallows. "Yes, sir." His voice rasps, words grating in his throat.

"I'm not going to stop. You know I'm not going to stop. We are done when I say we are done."

"I know, sir."

"The more you fight, the longer this takes, Steve."

Joe's hand squeezes his ass again. The casual pain makes his breath stutter, makes him want to beg for all the wrong things. It takes a long time before he trusts himself to talk. "I know." A strong squeeze and he sucks back the cry of pain in his throat. "S-sir."

When Joe pushes at his feet again, he suddenly knows, knows where this'll go, and he can't stop himself. "No, no, no, I'll be good, I'll take it, please, no, Joe, I can do this, you don't have to--" The words spill out like a rush and he wants to stop them, can hear them rush past his ears as he tries to hide from them, presses himself against the bench until he finds the control to clamp his mouth shut.

"You _will take_ what you are given."

Joe's foot taps his and he moves it, forces himself up on his toes, his legs trembling with the strain and a whole lot more. His chest is tight and his stomach is twisting.

_I can't do this._

He has to take this, has to accept what comes his way. He's always been able to do this, it's what makes him stronger, what keeps him from going crazy when the world around him is too much to deal with.

"You could have prevented this," Joe says behind him, gloved hand trailing over his ass, and Steve hangs his head at the truth of it. "Let this be a lesson, Steve." Joe reaches between his legs and unhooks the weights from their strap.

"Yes, sir." His voice is hoarse and nearly fails, and he wants to clear his throat but doesn't dare.

The first strike of the paddle against his balls makes his whole body shudder, and he wills it to stillness, but his legs don't cooperate, keep shaking against the strain. The second blow tears a groan from his throat, and he tries to say something, anything, to make it okay, but the next strike knocks the air out of him.

Joe doesn't let him catch his breath, there is no respite, only burning pain that takes over everything. He fights to suck air into his lungs, can't even focus on staying still or being silent, only on surviving this.

Every part of him hurts, wants to curl up and away from where he is, what is going on, but every blow that spanks a deep ache into his balls keeps him in his body, keeps him present against the leather bench, keeps him hearing the sound of the strikes against his flesh.

When it stops, he can't help the sob that escapes from his chest.

"What was that?"

He freezes. "N-nothing, sir. I'm fine."

"Are you now?"

He doesn't know how to answer that, his stomach dropping. He swallows hard, forces his body to maintain a stillness it doesn't have energy for anymore.

"That wasn't your finest hour, Steve. If you think I'm going to be lenient and let this go, you've got a surprise coming, son."

"I know, sir."

"You are a grown man. You're a trained Navy SEAL. I expect you to take both pain and discomfort."

His voice shakes, betraying him. "Yes, sir."

"Do you want to prove to me that you can do this?"

He starts to shake, is losing the fight against his body, losing the willpower he needs to win this, to beat this, to be who he needs to be to get through. He opens his mouth and the word spills from his lips. "Please."

"Please what?"

He dredges up the answer. "Please, _sir_."

Joe taps at his foot, lets him move his legs back together. It's momentary relief that helps him control the shakes. Joe steps away, and when he comes back, lays an object across Steve's back.

He knows at the first touch that it's the cane.

"You know what you have to do." Joe's voice is level behind him. "I'll make it easy for you, leave the weights off. My original count for you was twenty-five, I'll make that twenty."

He shouldn't need coddling. He shouldn't be feeling like someone is clamping a hand around his throat. The air is being forced from his lungs, he tastes a metallic tang in his mouth, and the blood starts roaring in his ears. Nausea burns in his stomach like an old companion.

"Steve. I'm waiting for an answer."

"I'll do it." He catches himself in time. "Sir."

"You're gonna take it?"

He grits his teeth together, wills his body to stop betraying him. "Yes. Yes, sir."

There's time to suck air into his lungs, to remind himself that this is what he came here for, to get help pushing past the bad stuff and coming out clean on the other side.

This is what he needs to give up, so this is what he'll give up.

The cane disappears from his back and he hears it cut through the air. The first blow hits high, stripes across his shoulders and wraps around his skin, a piercing burn that blocks everything else out. The roar in his ears makes it hard to hear, but he doesn't need an order to know what he needs to do. "One."

The second welt lands below the first, setting him on fire. He gasps for air, struggles to get enough, forces the pain down and away until he can form the word. "Two."

The third strike is midway down his back and _hurts_ , the lancing pain transforming into an ache that settles in his body, makes it feel like he's being ripped in two. "Th-th-three."

The fourth blow hits one from the previous session, and he can't help jerking away from it, not fully able to suppress the sounds it tears from him. "F-four."

The fifth teases at the abused skin of his ass and he moans, can't keep it in. He can feel the shakes start up again, beyond his control, his teeth chattering as he forces the required word past stiff lips. "Fi-ive."

He can't think about how much there is to come because his resolve falters; he has to take this, has said he'd take this, needs to take this because Joe is right. He has fucked up and he's paying the price for it, needs to pay the price for it, needs to earn it. The sixth strike cuts through his thoughts, across several welts and bruises and makes him feel every ache on his skin. He focuses on breathing, on surviving.

He can feel moisture on his cheeks, knows it's not from sweat, hates himself a little.

"...six."

His voice shakes, his teeth chatter uncontrollably, his legs are threatening to give out, but he has no time to pull himself together before the seventh stroke cuts through him. His left foot slips and he scrabbles to get his leg under him, forces out, "Seven."

He doesn't get the chance to get back on his feet; the eighth blow hits over the seventh, the bench taking his full weight when he can't support himself any more. The edge cuts into his hips and he fumbles to get his feet under him again before he grates out, "Eight."

The ninth burns across the tops of his thighs and he moans again, can't try to disguise the sound even as he tries to transform it into the word. "N-nine." The tenth follows as soon as he's said the number, strikes in the same place, and the fire is too much. His legs slip again and he can barely hold himself up. He can't think over the pain, the roaring sounds in his ears, the too rapid beating of his heart.

"Steve."

He drags it up, one last spurt of energy. "Ten," he slurs hoarsely. "J-Joe, please..."

"Halfway there, son."

He nods, reaches up with one hand to wipe his face. "Okay."

He takes the eleventh by holding his breath, gasps the number out on the exhale, but when the twelfth strikes he's barely caught his breath and it burns so bright he sees spots dance in front of his eyes. He cannot keep still at all anymore, cannot force his mouth to move, cannot do anything at all.

" _Steve_."

He hears the prompt but can't react, and the blow comes again, same place, welt over fresh welt, and the whimpering sound stutters from his chest. "T-twelve."

The whistling sound of the thirteenth strike is too much; he can feel the anticipation break him and the stripe of fire it paints across his skin tears a sob from him. He fights for air, fights for anything that'll get him through this, tries to retreat into his head but he's beyond that point, the fire too strong to let him. "Thirteen," he forces out, and then he can't stop, "P-please, no, please."

"What is it, son?"

There's a pause now, a respite, he clings to it even as he realizes his mistake, but the words tear from him as if he has no control over them. "Please..." He senses Joe getting ready for the next strike and that's what does it. "No, no, no, I'll be good, I'm sorry, I'll do better, Joe, please, make it stop."

"You know how to stop this."

 _Can't_. He can't fail again tonight, he just can't; he won't come back from this one if he stops it now.

The silence stretches and then he hears the sound, feels the next stripe that burns, and there's nothing left in him; he can't do it. He hears Joe prompt him but he can barely breathe, can barely keep himself upright, can't even hear the next blow before it lands and cuts a way across his back. His voice, when he gets it to work, is a whisper. "Fourteen. Fifteen. _Please, Joe_."

"All right. Fifteen."

He jerks at sixteen, shaking so hard he bites his tongue as he forces out the number, and seventeen melds with eighteen, everything blurring together. He must have said something, because Joe moves on, doesn't repeat the strikes, gives him nineteen low across his ass.

For a moment, he thinks he's going to black out from the pain. There are words running through his head, but he couldn't beg even if he wanted to, his mouth unable to do more than numbly slur the numbers. "Ni-- Nin--"

He's lost.

He takes the next stroke but he can't say anything, he's lost the ability to make his body move. Another strike cuts him and he sobs, doesn't fight it as it tears from him, and in a haze he can hear Joe's voice.

"Okay, enough."

He can't process it, can't understand what it means until he feels Joe's gloved hand squeezing his ass, spreading the pain and making it bearable, different, something he can sink into. He's shaking all over, uncontrollable little shivers that fight him every step of the way. His voice is hoarse when he finally gets it to work. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, please, I can't--" he sucks in more air "--can't take it, s-sorry, I'm sorry..."

"It's okay, son."

"J-Joe. Sir." He swallows hard against the failure sitting in his chest.

"It's over," Joe says somewhere behind him.

It isn't over, not when he can still feel part of himself strain for absolution, but he can't find words for that. He starts when Joe releases the strap around his balls and tugs out the plug. His body floods with renewed pain, and a groan works its way up from his chest. He gives into it, hollowed, defeated, unable to stop.

He hears sounds outside of himself but can't work out what they are, jerks violently at Joe's slicked up hand on his cock.

"Easy, Steve." Strong fingers wrap around him and he's not hard, doesn't think he can be after this, with his back and ass on fire, his balls aching. Joe begins to stroke him with a steady hand, doesn't let up. It makes him twitch, his body trying beyond its endurance.

He hardens in Joe's fist, too slowly. "C-can't," he forces out, but Joe doesn't stop.

"Yes, you can. You know you can. Come on."

His body wars between a desire for release and relief, straining for something that's not going to happen. It hurts when Joe tightens his grip, ups the speed of his hand, adds a twist as Steve bites down on a sob.

After a long while, his body is finally forced into coming over Joe's hand, spurting weakly as his orgasm leaves him sore and bruised.

Joe wipes his hands clean before putting his palm on Steve's back. "You did good, son."

Steve can't move, tries to turn his head. "Joe..."

"Easy."

There's a hand on his shoulder and Steve tries to cooperate, moves up stiffly. Every motion is agony and he has to pause, leans shaking arms on the bench as he catches his breath. He's finally able to stand, legs threatening mutiny for a bit, but he manages.

"You ready for a shower?"

He knows how much the water will sting, after this, and his mind shies away from it. He starts to shake his head but stops himself, forces more strength. "Yeah."

"Come on." He takes two shuffling steps before he can shake off Joe's hand at his elbow and follow Joe to the bathroom. Joe opens a cupboard and hands him a towel. "You know where everything is?"

"Yeah." His breath rattles wetly in his chest. "Thanks, Joe."

"Anytime, Steve." Joe's hand squeezes his shoulder before he leaves, pulling the door shut behind him. Alone for the first time in hours, Steve blinks a few times, looks up at the ceiling. He stands there for a few seconds, taking deep, slow breaths, but he knows too well that you can hear the shower running from the outside, can tell if someone is actually under it. He forces himself towards the shower cubicle, turns on the water, makes himself step under the spray.

The hot water burns, sends spikes of pain through the welts on his back. He gasps and, unable to hold himself up, sinks to his knees. It forces a sob from his chest that he fights, wants to force back down, but he has nothing left, no resistance to his body and mind folding under him. He digs the palms of his hands into his eyes and shudders through the tears.

\--  
 _finis_.


End file.
